The truck crunched to a halt on the gravel drive, and Hopwood jumped down.
"Ten minutes!" he reminded them, "and anyone who’s late will go for a six mile run before dinner."
No-one was really sure if he meant what he said, but neither were they willing to put his words to the test. Hair still dripping and bodies damp inside their dry clothing, they were all assembled in the lecture hall as the ten minutes drew to a close. It was not really a hall, merely the family music room. Pianos and music stands had been removed, and replaced by desks and chairs. A bust of Beethoven still stood on a pedestal at one end of the room, and Sergeant Hopwood stood beside it. He glanced at his watch.
"Well, gentlemen, you made it. Now sit down and pay attention."
The group of twenty young men found seats at the desks, each with its allotted map and compass, notepad and pencil.
"You’ll keep the pad and pencil for the full length of your stay with us," Hopwood explained. "The map and compass are there because you’re going to be 'dropped' this afternoon within six miles of this Base. You’ll have to find your way back by dinner time. Now, I'm assuming that you are all total beginners at this, so today you’ll be allowed the luxury of being dropped on a road. Next time it will be in the middle of a field, or a wood. Now, pay attention."
As Hopwood began to explain the intricacies of the compass and how to use it in conjunction with the map, twenty heads bowed over notepads, twenty pencils scratched and a quiet of extreme concentration settled upon the room.
The twenty new recruits to the SOE, the Special Operations Executive, met together in the bar after dinner. The map reading had gone well for a first attempt, and they all managed to make the six miles back to base in time for dinner. But on top of the morning’s assault course the walk had left them feeling totally exhausted; and this was just the first day.
Tony sat on a comfortable sofa, a small scotch on the table in front of him, and smiled at the young man opposite.
"How did you find the map reading?" he asked.
Len Haines shrugged.
"All right, I guess. I was a bit confused at first, but I think I'll get it all sorted out by the end of the course." He emptied his glass and signalled the bar steward for another double whisky. "This is like being in the boy scouts," he laughed. "If only my mates could see me now!"
Tony frowned. "You wouldn't tell them what you're doing would you?"
Len laughed. "Of course not! But wouldn't it be great to see their faces! Len Haines, super spy! What an adventure we're going to have!"
The steward brought Len his drink and hovered close by, wiping down tables. Len picked up the glass and emptied it in one swallow.
"You ought to take it easy with that whisky," Tony advised. "I bet we'll need to be wide awake tomorrow."
The young man shrugged. "I'll be all right in the morning. I can hold my liquor better than the average man. And why pass up the chance of free booze? You never know when you'll get another opportunity."
Tony’s brow furrowed into a frown, but he said nothing. His companion’s attitude puzzled him. The way he was behaving it was likely that he would be unfit for anything the following morning. Len Haines ordered another drink, and Tony wondered what special abilities he must have to have been chosen to join the SOE.
The next morning found the recruits out on the range, practicing with pistols. Their number was down to nineteen. Len Haines had been found 'unsuitable' and dismissed. Tony felt sure it must have been because of his excessive drinking and bragging the night before, and found himself wondering if the steward who had hovered close by was actually more than he appeared. Putting this from his mind, Tony concentrated on the task in hand. He had never used a pistol before, and had to concentrate hard on the target before squeezing off the two shots necessary to ensure a kill. By lunchtime he was mentally exhausted; by the end of the afternoon’s cross-country run he was physically exhausted too.
So the days passed, half of each day on assault courses and cross country runs, each seemingly longer and more punishing than the one before; the rest of the day with map reading, or pistols, or machine guns. By the end of the first week the recruits had pushed their bodies to the limit and beyond. Tony felt that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to make it to the end of the course. He would have to leave in disgrace. Yet, by half way through the second week his muscles ceased to ache at the end of each run. He found himself hitting the target at the range more and more frequently, and map reading was no longer a total mystery. He was feeling fitter than he had ever done before, and as each day passed he grew more confident that he would finally pass this part of the course, despite his earlier misgivings.
It was the night before the final test and the remaining nineteen recruits were relaxing in the Mess.
"It's the big one tomorrow. Twenty miles back to base, from wherever they decide to drop us." Tony smiled. "Last one back buys the drinks!"
A chorus of assent greeted this; after all, there was no harm in a little healthy competition. One of the men at the bar spoke up.
"Did you see that air battle while we were out on cross country this afternoon?"
There were some nods, but the majority said no.
"There must have been at least a dozen aircraft, flying too high for me to see what they were. There were a lot of smoke trails and the sound of an engine now and then, but nothing more. It was quite eerie really, to know that men were fighting for their lives up there, and we were almost totally oblivious to them down here. I don't know what the outcome was. I saw one plane go down in flames, but I can't say if it was theirs or ours." He shook his head reflectively. "Those pilots must be pretty special people."
Tony nodded. "They are. My brother’s a Spitfire pilot. From what I gather he seems to be fighting every day now. They're just holding the Nazis back until we’re ready for them."
"You must be pretty proud of your brother."
Tony nodded.
"I certainly am."
'I just wish I could make him feel proud of me,' he thought sadly. Still, once the war was won he would be able to explain everything to David, and they could resume their previous close relationship. He hoped that day would not be too far away.
Tony climbed down from the back of the truck, wearing full fatigues and carrying a haversack on his back. It did not feel too heavy, but he knew that before the twenty miles were over he would be wishing he did not have it with him. Sergeant Hopwood smiled grimly down at him.
"This is roughly where you are, Kemshall," he said, pointing to a broad area on the map. "See you back at Base."
With a roar, the army truck sped off down one of the two lanes which crossed here in the woods. Tony had a choice of four routes. The trees grew closely together, and he knew that it would be foolish to try to force his way through them. Compass in hand, he studied the map, carefully finding the position of the Base and orientating himself towards it. The track which led in roughly the right direction, according to both the map and his own inbuilt sense of direction, lay to his left. Placing the compass in his pocket and carefully buttoning the flap, Tony began to run at a slow, steady trot down the track.
It was a hot, sunny day and Tony was glad to be in the shade of the trees, although he knew from the map that these would soon end and he would have to cover the majority of the twenty miles in the full glare of the sun. As if to prove him right, the trees came to an abrupt end and Tony was faced with a field glowing yellow with ripened heads of corn, bending low to the ground. It looked like it would be a good harvest. Unclipping his water bottle from his belt, Tony took a swallow of the warm, tasteless water before setting off around the edge of the field.
It was almost midday and the sun beat down mercilessly. The haversack was already a crushing weight on his shoulders, and sweat soaked his heavy uniform, but Tony kept up a steady pace, forcing one weary foot ahead of the other across the uneven ground. At last, he reached the smooth surface of a road. A quick glance at
the map was all he needed to determine which way to go, then he was off again. As time passed, his pace slowed. Tony was tired and his muscles ached, yet he felt that he was making good time. He forced himself on through sleepy villages, across slow moving streams, past fields where hay-makers stopped their work to watch the fool run by in heavy clothing on such a hot day.
At last the familiar and welcome sight of the gates to base greeted his eyes, and Tony smiled wearily. Straightening his back, he increased his speed a little and ran up the driveway to halt on the gravel forecourt in front of Sergeant Hopwood.
"Well done, lad." The Sergeant smiled his first truly friendly smile of the course. "There are a few back before you, but not many, so it won't be you who has to buy the drinks."
Slipping the haversack from his shoulders, Tony leant forward and placed his hands on his knees. As he drew in huge gulps of air, his laboured breathing began to ease and the pain in his chest to dissipate.
"You'll have to wait to see the CO to get your official report," Hopwood continued, "but unofficially I can tell you that you have passed this course with flying colours. Now, go and get changed."
With a smart salute and a grateful smile, Tony headed back to his quarters for a bath and a rest.
22
Operating from the forward Base at Manston, 74 Squadron’s pilots had barely reached their Dispatch Points when the scramble alarm sounded at 07.49 hours on 11th August. Reynolds was the first to reach his plane, and they were swiftly airborne with his Squadron’s twelve Spitfires leading the way out towards Dover. Not long into the flight they surprised a formation of German fighters.
"Tally Ho! There they are, boys! Let's get them!"
The German planes dived to avoid the Spitfires, and soon the sky was a whirling maelstrom of individual dogfights. David saw Reynolds heading south towards France on the tail of a 109, then broke away from his Section to help another Spitfire with a fighter on its tail. Taking the enemy by surprise, he poured bullets into the plane until the pilot veered away to avoid further damage. With a whoop of joy David was after it, adrenalin pumping. He felt no fear as he fired into the plane again. Suddenly bullets ripped into him from behind. This time it was his turn to climb steeply away to avoid the man on his tail.
The sky was filled with vapour trails, smoking planes, the scream of engines, planes climbing, diving, turning; it was almost impossible to keep track of what was happening, although David got the distinct impression that the Spitfires had the upper hand. Diving into the melée once again, he fired his guns repeatedly until his ammunition was exhausted, then headed for home.
The pilots, all except Etheridge who had bailed out into the sea just off the coast from Dover, were still in debriefing when the Tannoy blared again at 10.15 hours. A reserve pilot and plane flew where Etheridge should have been as the Squadron headed out over the Channel, where they intercepted another flight of Meschersmitt fighters.
"Look out, Tim!" David yelled, as he saw a plane dive towards Green Three, but there was no reply, just a crackle and hiss over the RT.
"Can anyone hear me?"
The RT hissed again.
"Damn!"
Reception must have been bad for all of the Squadron, for David noticed that there were very few co-ordinated attacks on the enemy, but that did not deter the Spitfires. The air was full of de Wilde burning bright pathways towards the enemy. David knew he had scored hits on two planes, but both had limped back towards France and, as his ammunition ran out, he knew he would be able to claim no kills at all on this sortie. With one last look at the planes still engaged in combat, he turned and headed for home.
David’s legs were shaking with tiredness as he climbed down from his bullet-ridden plane at Manston. He made his slow way across the airfield to debriefing. His shoulders were stiff, his head ached, and he rubbed gently at his eyes, which were tired and heavy from the fumes. What he wanted more than anything was a chance to sleep. He made his report concisely before heading for his Dispatch Point and the chance to rest. The ground crew had the kettle boiling, waiting for the Squadron to return, and David thankfully poured steaming tea into his tin mug before sitting down in the corner, feet up on the chair opposite. With a sigh he raised the mug to his lips, just as the scramble alarm sounded again. It was 11.45. With a groan of dismay, David put his mug down on the arm of the chair and ran out to his plane.
"Is she ready to go?" He climbed up onto the wing root.
The ground crew nodded. "Your tank’s full and you have a full load of ammo, though we've had no time to make any repairs."
"Never mind, that’ll give you something to do this afternoon!"
David slammed the cockpit hood closed and pressed the ignition. The Merlin engine roared into life, and he was airborne again. Making a slow turn, he headed east with ten other Spitfires to give air cover to Convoy 'Booty', which was steaming twelve miles east of Clacton.
"Right, lads." Reynolds voice came over the RT as they sighted the convoy. "Contrary to rules, I want to fly in fours instead of our usual Vic of threes. Red and Blue Sections into fours. Numbers One and Three, and numbers Two and Four, fight as pairs."
"About forty Hun at four thousand feet, Red Leader."
"Thanks, Freeman. Right. Let's get them, lads."
David felt tired as he dived down on the low-flying enemy. The day had been a round of constant tension, no moments to rest, let alone relax, and he felt drained. Yet as battle was joined and the adrenalin flowed it was as if he were reborn. Everything became clear, the action appeared to happen in slow motion. He found himself totally attuned to his surroundings, aware of all that was happening around him. Feeling at one with his plane, David felt completely in control and this time he made two kills, watching them fall into the heaving grey seas below. To his amazement, he found himself sympathising with the enemy pilots after his own experience of ditching.
As the battle raged, David’s feeling of euphoria began to fade, and his tiredness became more apparent. His body ached, and it was getting more and more difficult to control the plane. His hands shook with fatigue, but at last the enemy broke away and the convoy was safe. The Spitfires turned as one, and headed for home.
"Some way to celebrate your twenty-sixth birthday, hey, Yates?"
Silence greeted Freeman’s remark.
"Yates?"
"He won't be celebrating." Reynolds voice was grim. "I'm afraid he's bought it. So has Jones."
The pilots returned to Manston in silence. No one thought of the fight they had just won or the number of enemy they had brought down. All their thoughts were with their two companions who would never fly with them again, of friendships forged in combat now shot down in flames.
The nine Spitfires landed at Manston at 12.45.
“You fought magnificently up there,” Reynolds complimented the pilots on their way to debriefing. “I know we’ve always fought in the traditional Vic formation, but that requires a great deal of skill and absolute concentration. I thought that as we were all so tired, flying line astern might be safer.”
David nodded. “Forming pairs seemed much easier, and gave us all greater cover. I, for one, appreciated that.”
There were murmurs of agreement from his colleagues and Reynolds nodded. “I’m convinced we’d have lost even more planes if we had been flying the old Vic formation.” His words brought to mind their fallen comrades, and the pilots continued on their way in silence.
After debriefing, David made his way back to his Dispatch Point, praying that the action was over for the day. A dark scum had settled on the surface of his mug of cold tea, and he poured it away before refilling the mug and taking a thankful drink.
There is a limit to what the human mind and body can take in a short space of time. David was fast asleep within moments of sitting down, his exhausted body recouping what little it could in the time available. Shortly before 14.00 hours the scramble alarm sounded again.
For a few moments the sound did not register in D
avid’s tired brain. Then, with a groan, he opened his eyes, rose to his feet and ran for his plane, fighting back his lethargy. As he gunned the engine into life and took off to join the other seven planes which were to be sent out, David felt as though his hands had not left the controls all day. His muscles ached, and there was a throbbing behind his tired eyes as Reynolds led the aircraft towards Margate.
"We'll be flying in two Sections, lads, Blue and Red. Four apiece." Reynolds stopped talking as he sighted planes in the distance and tried to distinguish them.
"Dysoe Leader to Control. Dysoe Leader to Control. Have sighted about ten bombers with twenty Bf 109's. We're going in." David had heard, and was ready when the order came. "Right, lads. Blue One, take your boys down and deal with the bombers. We'll take the fighters."
As the planes closed with the enemy, Blue Section failed to peel away and stayed alongside Red.
"Hartley, can you hear me? Take your men down to the bombers." There was no response, and Reynolds swore expressively as the bombers disappeared into cloud cover.
Reynolds was firing wildly at a plane. It burst into flames and fell spinning towards the ground as he turned to attack four fighters above him. Over on his left he saw David firing into a plane. David felt once again the exhilaration of battle, but knew it would not last for long. Desperate to return to base and rest, he fired once more at the plane as they dived through the clouds. Suddenly the Germans’ engine stopped and fragments broke away. It fell to the earth like a stone.
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